


Roll The Bones

by northernmongrel



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Broken Bones, Jack is helpless with these things, M/M, Pining, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-27
Updated: 2017-05-27
Packaged: 2018-11-05 11:22:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,661
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11012427
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/northernmongrel/pseuds/northernmongrel
Summary: A mission goes wrong in Mexico. Jack saves Jesse, for whatever reason.





	Roll The Bones

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nox_Wicked](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nox_Wicked/gifts).



> prompt response for the lovely nox_wicked who is a complete sweetheart. 
> 
> no beta. I own all embarrassing mistakes.

“— _Trust me_.” Jesse had rasped, clinging to Jack’s wrist. His grimy fingernails draw blood. Tiny crescent moons of crimson that pepper the Strike Commander’s skin. 

 

Jack ignored him. _Of course he had_. Brash and bullheaded, just as Gabriel always criticized. Jesse had the shot lined up, his right eye squint through the swaying reeds. Three men; lined up like tin cans on a barbed wire fence. Jesse’s hand reached for Peacekeeper, but Jack had knocked him away. Instead, hoisting Jesse up over his shoulder like a sack of maze; obnoxiously effortless. And all he could do was watch their three targets fade away amongst the sugarcane. 

 

Jack carried him three miles. Jesse fell limp after the first couple yards, his head lolling against Jack’s sweaty shirt thats riddled with burn holes and rusty stains. 

 

_He had the shot._

 

Blood and sweat drips from his brow, stinging his eyes. The taste of dirty pennies on his tongue—down the back of his throat. 

 

Eventually Jack stumbles from the amidst the thick sugarcane and into a field. The ground’s dusty and parched. But in the centre stands a white farmhouse, cool beneath the shade of a weeping willow. It’s two stories tall, with peeling paint and smashed windows. 

 

Jack pulls his gun out from his thigh holster, readjusting Jesse over his shoulders. The Strike Commander kicks open the screen door, pistol cocked, sweeping the corners. 

 

Jesse mumbles delirious prayers of thanksgiving when Jack finally puts him down. He slumps from Jack’s shoulder and into the dusty bottom of a bathtub. It’s porcelain is cool against his skin— he’s also safe from stray bullets. 

 

“Stay here. Head down, I’m going to check the perimeter.” Jack orders, stabbing his index finger at Jesse. _As if he could go anywhere._

 

Jesse nods, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. 

 

Jack disappears for nine minutes and forty-one seconds. Jesse counts in time to his breathing . His ears buzz with white noise as he strains to listen. Any sign that Jack’s encountered someone that’s tracked them through the fields. Jack’s standard pistol had eight rounds. _But nothing_. 

 

Jesse strains to see Jack when the other man returns. His head pounds as he squirms, elbow knocking against the copper faucet. 

 

“Stop moving.” Jack barks in a low voice, kneeling down beside the bathtub. The pistol is re-holstered, and Jack’s hands hover over Jesse’s body; useless and fumbling. 

 

“Awe, fuck off.” Jesse groans. His hands reach for his abdomen. Jack pushes them away. 

 

“You broke your pelvis. I’m sure of it. _Fuck_.” Jack curses the ceiling, his head tilted back. 

 

Jesse’s hands still. He watches the Strike Commander’s face. The flinch of Jack's jawbone. The trickle of dried blood from his left nostril. The hoarse sound of a man who’s been defeated.

 

“Fuck—fuck. Fuck.” Jack continues to the utter at no one in particular, save for himself.

 

“ _Didn’t let me take the shot_ ,” Jesse mumbles, skull rolling against the cool porcelain, “ _Ah’ could've made it_.”

 

“No. You couldn’t have. Not from that line of sight.” Jack snaps back.

 

“You don’t trust me.” Jesse groans. His brow furrows up in an wince. The adrenaline is subsiding and the pain is filtering through. It pulses from inside the cradle of his pelvis, in tune with his heartbeat. 

 

“Gawd. Think… maybe, it’s bad.” Jesse’s eyes roll back, and for a brief moment he’s fighting off blackness from the corner of his eyes.

 

Jack starts to roll up the hem of Jesse’s shirt, slowing down as more is revealed. The soft flesh of Jesse’s abdomen is completely _blue_. From the sharp between his hope bone, all the way down to his pubic arch. He’s blossoming; greenish and blue. 

 

“Damn.” Jesse whistles dryly, pupils blown wide.

 

“You’ve ruptured something. Goddamnit McCree.” Jack’s shaking his head as he tugs the shirt from over his shoulders, “—Probably your spleen.”

 

“That bad?” Jesse croaks. He grips the copper faucet behind him, watching Jack’s face.

 

“You’ll be fine. It’ll be fine.”

 

“Don’t bullshit me Jack.” 

 

“Shut up McCree, and help me get you onto your side. I’m gonna wrap this around you.” Jack’s hands are at his shoulders, rocking Jesse onto his side as gentle as possible, “This will slow the internal bleeding. Buy us some time.”

 

Jesse swallows and nods. Jack ties the shirt around his broken pelvis and _god_ , he can feel the bone shift. Pain erupts and he swears his entire stomach warms with blood. He hollers, back arching off the tub’s bottom. Jack’s hand presses down on his sternum in an instant, keeping him still. And he doesn’t let up until Jesse goes limp. Only then does Jack remove the heel of his palm, falling back on the soles of his boots. He runs his hand through sticky blond hair. 

 

Jesse can see the shake of Jack’s hand. The fingernails marks that he’s made, welting and inflamed along Jack’s wrist and forearm.

 

Jesse closes his eyes.

 

An hour passes. Jack leaves to check their permitter. Jesse slips from the land of the waking every few minutes. And his mouth is dry beyond belief. His tongue sticking to the back of his throat, choking him. He can still taste the ash of burning sugarcane. He can hear the sharp _bang_ of a tire combusting as they roll over a pressure plated mine. Their armoured truck had rolled multiple times. Windows smashed. Metal crumpled like a dead leave in autumn; brittle and brown. 

 

Seven operatives dead. Jack had pried him loose from wrangled metal. The first person—and the last.

 

_But he had the shot._

 

When Jesse closes his eyes, he can see the three men. He can count the shots in time to his trigger finger which is in time to his heartbeat. 

 

///

 

“—Thirsty.” Jesse croaks from the bathtub. 

 

“You can’t.” Jack replies. The Strike Commander leans against the doorframe, pistol in hand, safety off. 

 

“Jack…” Jesse’s fingers clench the sides of his porcelain cradle. He blinks, eyeing Jack through the shaft of late afternoon sunlight and dust particles that float lazily in it’s warmth, “—Jack. Please.”

 

Jack sighs. The older man runs a hand down the side of his face, leaving a smudge of dirt across his cheekbone, “Jesse, I can’t. Not in your condition.” he shakes his head, sounding helpless.

 

Jesse’s throat flexes around nothing. He averts his gaze back up to the ceiling. 

 

A minute later, Jack gets up from the floor and walks out. The Strike Commander returns with a tin can of water and a rag. 

 

“Theres a water reservoir on the property. It’s warm, but here—” Jack dips the rag into the water, wringing it out before placing it against Jesse’s papery lips. 

 

Jesse gnaws the rag, working it between his molars. The whites of his eyes show, vaguely aware that Jack is brushing greasy hair off his forehead. The touch is gentle—hesitant. With all the care in the world, emanating from Jack’s cornflower eyes. 

 

He’s seen that look before, from Gabriel.

 

“Jack… m’ sorry.” he rasps, fingers seeking Jack’s skin.

 

“You’ll be fine—” Jack repeats the consolation like a prayer, “You’ll be fine.”

 

“Should’a gone back. Pulled Themba… Abel.” 

 

Jack just shakes his head and dampens the rag once more. Water patters against the flakey floor boards. _Wasteful_.

 

“Or you’ just a hero when there’s a camera.” Jesse coughs and immediately braces against the pain. Jack’s hand grips his jawbone; steadying him. The Strike Commander looks so intent—so stubbornly bent on keeping the damp rag between Jesse’s teeth like nothing else matters. He can hear Gabriel’s warm chuckle in the back of his skull; _brash and bullheaded._

 

But Jesse is never graced with a reply to his comment, because he passes out cold in the bottom of the bathtub. 

 

///

 

**Three months later. Watchpoint: Grand Mesa.**

 

“S’ itchy.” Jesse huffs, tugging at his hair. Gabriel has it tied back in a braid; neat and tidy. It pulls at his scalp and he can’t keep his fingers away.

 

“Leave it. You look tidy, for once. Somewhat presentable.” Gabriel shoots from across the room. The Blackwatch Commander is standing before the window, adjusting the collar of his shirt in it’s reflection. 

 

“I’m always handsome.” Jesse retorts, tucking a stand of loosened hair behind his ear before Gabriel can notice. 

 

“ _Pfft_.” Gabriel sounds.

 

“You know it best pumpkin.” Jesse winks.

 

“You feeling ok today?” Gabriel asks, turning away from the window. He’s got his dark curls combed back, beard neatly trimmed. He approaches Jesse, one hand falling to Jesse’s hip, thumbing at the waistband.

 

“Just dandy.” Jesse tuts in reply. And when Gabriel doesn’t let go, he makes levelled eye contact, “—M’ feeling fine today. No aches. No pains. Right as rain in March.” he assures, pulling a lopsided grin.

 

“Alright then.” Gabriel nods. Jesse presses a kiss against the older man’s jawline and then a second on Gabriel’s chin. The man smells of white musk and pine; a common scent shared between them.

 

“All ready?” Gabriel asks, reaching for his wallet that sits on the bedside dresser. 

 

“Ready. You certain now, ah’ can’t just wear my hair down?”

 

“It’s an occasion. You gotta look like you’ve put some effort in. Besides, I let you wear jeans.” Gabriel says as if it were some great blessing. 

 

“He’s not gonna care either way Gabe.” Jesse drawls. 

 

“Jack’s gonna be dressed up. Because that’s what Jack does best. Plus, he’ll be nervous.”

 

“Bout what? The dinner bill?” Jesse snuffs.

 

Gabriel tosses him a look, “—Trivia fact for the night; Jack Morrison sucks at this sort of thing.”

 

Jesse barks a laugh, “Well ain’t that cute.”

 

“Tonights for him. For what he did back in Mexico.”

 

Jesse scrunches his nose. And for a fleeting moment, pain whispers at the back of his mind. The stench of blood and burning sugar cane. The bathtub in which he’d nearly given up to the holy ghost inside. A goddamn grave of white porcelain. 

 

He almost drops the set of keys Gabriel tosses at him from the door. He blinks. 

 

“You’re driving.”

 

“Fine. But we’re taking the pickup.” Jesse mutters, stuffing his wallet and ID into the back pocket of his jeans.

 

“Good. It’ll match your outfit.”

 

///

 

Grand Junction is the nearest municipally to Watchpoint: Grand Mesa. Gabriel had made reservations the previous month. But it’s a Thursday night, and theres only two other cars in parking lot when Jesse drives up in the pickup. He parks and cuts the engine, yanking the key from the ignition. 

 

Gabriel had chosen a Greek restaurant; _Daphne's On Main_. 

 

Jack meets them outside the restaurant five minutes later. The Strike Commander is wearing jeans and a light blue flannel. Jesse shoots Gabriel a lopsided grin. _See? Socially acceptable_. 

 

Dinner entails glasses of red wine and table-talk. Gabriel fusses over the lamb kebab. Jesse picks at a buttery potato baked with lemon. Jack entertains with light topics; the local weather, the political climate in Russia. 

 

No one mentions Mexico or the operations turned north. 

 

Jack insists on paying the bill, but Gabriel is overly assertive. Jesse kicks back, watching the two Commanders squabble, toothpick wedged between his teeth. 

 

Eventually Jack relents—Gabriel forks over some curled bills, and they leave the restaurant. The evening is balmy. The sweetness of the Colorado summer filling Jesse’s nose, dusting the back of his throat. Gabriel is the one who suggests renting a motel room. Jesse agrees. Jack just nods, silent, watching the ground. 

 

///

 

Gabriel instigates by kissing Jesse on the mouth. Jack is sliding the deadbolt into place on the door to their room, before turning back around. His mouth falls open—jaw working, but no sound is made.

 

Jesse’s eyes are wide open—staring at Gabriel. He can taste the merlot on Gabriel’s mouth; dark and oaken. Their stubble scratches uncomfortably. He moans through an exhale. And then Gabriel’s hand is reaching for Jack through the dim air, but Jack remains just out of arm’s reach. Standing beside the exit, kneading the knuckles of his hand. 

 

“Jack. For fucks sake—” Gabriel breaks away from Jesse having caged the younger man against the drab floral wallpaper. 

 

Jesse watches the slide of Jack’s adams apple. How suddenly, the Strike Commander is so very… insubstantial. Less of the man that pulled him from a burning wreck—but more human. _And far more appealing_. 

 

Jack approaches. Jesse reaches out, scrunching Jack’s crisp shirt in his fist. He drags the taller man stumbling towards them. Gabriel watches. Jack’s mouth is soft against his own when he takes the liberty—impartial to Jesse rolling his bottom lip between his front teeth. He fights the urge to bite down—to nick blood.

 

“Thank you.” Jesse breaths, looking up into Jack’s eyes. The man’s brow is creases, the cornflower blue of his eyes pensive. 

 

“—Thank you. Fer’ back in Mexico.” Jesse husks.

 

“You don’t need to… McCree. We don’t need to do this—”

 

“He wants to.” Gabriel interjects, “— _We want to_. I just wanna know why.”

 

Jack blinks, “Wha—?”

 

“ _Why_. Why’d you save my boy.”

 

Jesse moves his mouth down to Jack’s collarbone, tugging the shirt out of his way. He can taste soft soap—clean laundry. Mild salt that makes his mouth water. The motel room is stuffy and unventilated despite the creak of an aluminum fan. Jesse can feel sweat trickle down his lower back. The mess of his braid sticking to the back of his neck. The wetness where he suckles at Jack’s skin.

 

“Because…” Jack blunders, cheeks warming. Gabriel clamps a hand over the back of Jack’s neck. It’s nonthreatening and consciously gentle. Just enough to reassure the other man.

 

“—Because I love him.” Jack squeezes his eyes shut. Ashamed and bashful; utterly gorgeous.

 

Gabriel is slow to nod. Gentle in his understanding.

 

Jesse’s mouth curves at a grin against Jack’s sweat-licked skin. Lust pangs inside his stomach at the mumbled confession. 

 

“Sorry.” Jack shakes his head, pulling away from the two other men, “ _Fuck_. Sorry. I shouldn't have said that aloud.”

 

“It’s fine. We’ll be fine.” Gabriel says, rubbing his thumb against the vertebrae of Jack’s neck. The Strike Commander’s body relaxes; a willow branch loosing it’s bend.

 

“Just gotta trust us. _Trust me_.” Jesse breaths, “—If ah’ say ah’ got the shot. Let me take it. Don’t gotta be the hero all the time darling.”

 

“Yeah. Still riding that pony, huh McCree?”

 

Gabriel smacks Jack on the back of his head. 

 

Jesse chuckles, the sound hoarse.

 

“Really ah’m a good shot.”

 

“ _I know that_.”

 

“Good. So you can trust me next time. Yeah?”

 

Jack can only nod in relent. Jesse mouths along Jack’s collarbone, inching his way to the suppleness of Jack’s shoulder. He makes space for Gabriel to join in; enough lechery to go around.

 

Jack is a passionate lover. Attentive. Pleasing in every sense of the word. When they make it to the double bed, Jack hikes up Jesse’s shirt to reveal his heaving abdominal muscles. Tender kisses are pressed against the flesh of Jesse’s scars. He swallows, squirming, heat prickling down his spine. The sheets are already damp. The springs inside the mattress squealing beneath their combined weight as they settle on the bed.

 

Headlights flash outside the window—illuminating from between the slats. The room is suffocating. 

 

A scar is carved over each of his hipbones. Thick and unappealing. But Jack whispers only praise, muffled against Jesse’s skin. Gabriel’s cradling him at the headboard, muttering in broken Spanish. 

 

Jack’s body curls overtop Jesse’s own. The kisses turn to nuzzling. His jeans are unbuttoned, his pants shimmied down to the joint of his knees. Gabriel’s erection presses between his shoulder blades. Jack is running the flat of his tongue up Jesse’s inner thigh.

 

“Jack… _honey_.” Jesse’s voice is broken. Gabriel is running fingers through his sweat—damp hair, rubbing his hardness against the sweaty skin of Jesse’s backside. 

 

“—Sweet thing. Ah’ love you to. And it’s gonna be fine.”

 


End file.
